WELCOME TO THE MARTIN DEAN WEBSITE
Instead of accepting lucrative offers to perform in Las Vegas, a crooner from the old school prefers to work on his artistic ambitions in old Europe. This story sounds unbelievable and so does the music of Martin Dean and his colleagues: psychedelic touches – live or per mouse click, seductive minimal grooves, Latin American chill out, funk, jazz piano, electronics, traces of Detroit rock (“Spacelord Motherfucker”) – you name it. Despite stylistic diversity, the original compositions sound like a unified whole which is not lastly due to Martin Dean’s singing techniques. If you try to describe the way he sings, you won’t be able to avoid recalling values and words which were thought to be lost. Spontaneously one would like to praise the melodiousness of his voice or spin tales of well-oiled vocal cords. For their fans Martin Dean and his musicians (YoYo Röhm, bass; Jochen Arbeit, guitar and Stephan Creutzburg, guitar) aim to sweeten easy listening with depth. This is what they playfully accomplish with their work “The Best of Martin Dean.”
To properly prepare for the following music, simply imagine that you are sitting in a red plush seat. It is already well worn. Perhaps that’s why it’s your favorite chair in your favorite club, a little bit of a dive, a little bit of grandeur, illuminated by dimly lit chandeliers, and right now on stage a few men in creased suits are playing. Already having seen so many fashions come and go, they for once simply want to look for the essence, and that is not rock’n’roll and not soul, that is not lounge funk and not club music, but the heart muscle which pumps rock’n’roll, soul, lounge funk and even to a certain degree club music full of life, while not at all shying away from striving for the soul.
Yes, soul. That is really “The Best of Martin Dean,” the title of the album, and that is why one lights another cigarette in one’s seat while thoughtfully rocking one’s glass so as not to show any emotions. Because in such matters, composure is important, since a treasure also wants to be guarded. If that were not the case, then a Tev Falco would for example have to play in stadiums and not Bruce Springsteen. But while Tev Falco frequently performs with amateur musicians (which definitely also has its charm), Martin Dean works with a band which knows how to play everything with the necessary cool. Alexander Hacke played some of the guitars; Thomas Wydler drummed on several tracks; there are beautiful violin parts, great organs, and some of the moods invoked recall records from Crime & The City Solution or Nick Cave. But for Martin Dean it is not about saving a struggling Catholicism. It’s more of an existential cool, like Doris Day sung her “Que sera.”
But sometimes one does encounter the demons of the night, which don’t entirely let themselves be driven away. A latent psychotic tension. It is also at work here, driving the music. A predilection for elegant clothing is not at all meant to hide the dirt under the fingernails.
Of course, exceptionally well liked is the faithful rendition of Eric Burdon’s guitar riff from “San Franciscan Nights” in the song “That’s for sure.” That shows respect and also that one can only look ahead, because one stands on other people’s shoulders. The album looks ahead and back (but purists will perhaps first have to get used to some of the electronic sounds). And the sensuous “Me Gusta” with its flickering organ is definitely bound to be the summer hit. A small one at least. For your little treasure chest.